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To everyday
That I feel pain

To the ones that always
Rain on my parade
Pardon my manners
But I think my head is displaced
Or off circuit
Or just a basket case
of unending nerves
That bundle together
To make a fire place

And then shock
Me with migraines
On an unforgiving
Regular basis

My paranoia
Is all that's left
Maybe I'll give that a go
Maybe know one will ever know

That the shhhhh....
Their listening!

Sorry the end.

I woke up confused.
I asked: what happened?
I’m broken and bruised.
Silently and violently, I was attacked.

I’m still curious to know what really happened.

The attack tears through my mind.
I’m separated from the world.
My mind was stolen.
As usual, I’m exposed to horrible migraines.

Oh! My God, it’s another seizure.

It’s one of many since childhood.
Oh! you inevitable silent attacker.
We’ve walked together since childhood.
You’ve got the nerve to even attack me at home.

I still can’t get used to our long-term one sided relationship.
Every epileptic seizure still hurt like the first time.

https://www.facebook.com/EpilepsyandCpfriends/

When my head is pounding & my heart is throbbing,
when it seems like a good idea to drink my sorrows away till the next morning.
When the constant pain just starts to get worse every time you cross my mind.
It’s not midnight sadness anymore,
it’s morning & afternoon sadness that i can never get over.
You were my anti-depressant & now that you are gone
I crave you more than anything & i’m sadder than I ever were.

feeling sorry for myself again,
surprise surprise, I think a lot
they say don't it's bad for you,
surprise surprise, I wonder still
feeling sorry for myself again,
like some crack-addled *****
frustration at every turn, as I see
the corridors of my mind; a dead end
every time, and maybe the migraines
are a true sign of recent times
pain for days, a complete sense of contempt
seeing myself so low, I must mount my eyes
high up in the trees, stitched into leaves
to look down on everything so

feeling sorry for myself again,
surprise surprise, I think a lot
they said don't it's bad for me,
surprise surprise, I wonder still
feeling sorry for myself again,
like some lonesome lowlife
I understand the kettle's whistle,
tormented and brought to boiling point,
tortured by the very talents that give it purpose
am I a kettle or a joke to you?
pain for days, a complete sense of contempt
seeing myself so low, I must mount my eyes
high up in the trees, stitched into leaves
to look down on everything so

There comes a point as you sit there
trying to untangle your fingernails from between your teeth
as your leg bounces at a million miles a minute,
and you think Jesus Christ how’d I get here?
Shadows on the screen and a pinch with spreading cold
as you nearly shake yourself off the table,
you clutch at the cage on your head
and breathe deep.

Dry white pills rattle
in their dark green chamber.
Large and hard and pure,
they leave soft dust
where they clack together.

The cap spins free easy
when I fumble the bottle
and they trip eagerly
into my hand, so that
I must select my savior.

It takes hold of my muscles
and releases their grip on me,
fills my hanging head with its
whiteness rather than my red,
and gives my grinding teeth peace.

It ushers in sleep,
who has circled at the door,
smooths the sharp edges
of my breath in the
darkness, and tucks me in.

I spent my fifth grade year in school in my fourth new district
writing timed multiplication tests while blood fell from my nose
in hot fat drops splattering my papers,
a rusty brown organic counterpoint
to the red ink of my teacher’s note
“Emily- see me after class”
and my stomach dropped faster than the blood
or the bobble-headed Care Bear that my Social Studies teacher
threw out the window during class
because she once mentioned that she hated Care Bears
and so we covered her room with them.
I spent my fifth grade year at home in my parent’s bed
with blankets tacked over the windows and towels stuffed
into the cracks under the doors
while my parents tiptoed through the kitchen
and I dug my chewed off nails into my scalp trying
to claw the rot and smoldering ash out of my head
and flinched at every creaking floor board.
It was an old house.
The mourning doves called sycophantic dirges every dawn
(and noon, and dusk),
and I grinned when the dog chased them off to hide
with the one-eyed tom in the barn.
I tell you these things not to make you feel sorry for me,
but because I am confused how I can feel sorry for me
and yet miss that time so much.
In the end, I am left only with the firm conviction
that timed tests are every child’s bane,
and mourning doves are just country pigeons.